Underneath
by Perfection-Addict
Summary: "...the discomfort of his stare was nothing compared to the feeling of swinging over the Chasm...studying him was far more appealing than studying the darkness beneath my feet. So I held his gaze as tightly as I held the rail..." (Eric x Initiate OC, Slow Burn) IN THE POV OF THE OC, Jess


**A/N:**

 **Hello! Just a few things to clear up:**

 **1) Of course, I do not own Divergent or its characters (Veronica Roth does!)**

 **2) I may or may not change the age of the initiates (I will let you know in later chapters)**

 **3) At this point, I've kept with the general sequence of the movie**

 **4) Enjoy! (And please review, I'd love to hear your thoughts)**

* * *

Chapter 1: The Chasm

"You're weak…you have no muscle. You're never going to win – not like that."

"That's good to know."

"Yup, you have to use your whole body. Keep tension here." He seized her midsection firmly, roughly twisting her forward with both hands. I snapped my gaze back to the punching bag that hung before me, feeling uneasy about eavesdropping on what seemed to be an oddly private exchange. In an attempt to drown out Four's resounding voice, I focused on smacking the red vinyl of the bag with my fists and forearms, in what I assumed was a sloppy sequence. My forehead and neck were damp with sweat – which was less a token of my hard work and more so of my lack of fitness. I glanced back over at Tris, who now stood alone, noting that – once again – she didn't so much as sweat, as she did glow. Using the bottom half of my tank top to wipe at my face, I attempted to slow my breathing down in hopes that my heart rate would follow suit, then momentarily abandoned the punching bag to stretch my muscles. I pulled at my arms, raised them above my head, and then brought my hands to the ground, feeling the familiar strain in both my calves.

I was not a complete stranger to physical combat, although my apparent inability to win one of the initiate fights, and my rather low ranking, conveyed otherwise. I had been an angry child, my irritation with the world only outmatched by my older brother's, with whom I constantly fought. We'd always been at each other's throats, making our anger physical, tangible – _known_. And when we weren't, I was practicing for the next time that we were. It was my outlet, the subsequent bodily ache my distraction. Dauntless, however, felt the need to introduce me to pain so intense that my body seemed to eternally throb. Perhaps, however, I only had myself to blame for my lack of strength. For my lack of resilience. For I had suppressed my rage long ago, and stopped fighting with the world shortly after.

Returning to the bag, I began to carefully map out my movements, ensuring myself that this would be far more beneficial than attacking it at random. The sound of high-pitched grunting behind me signified that two girls were at it on the mat, probably bloodied and more than ready to end the fight they had been forced into. Having yet to fight myself, my stomach wrenched with awful anticipation which quickly dissipated upon hearing Eric yell out:

"Alright let's everyone take a break."

Peter was behind me in seconds, striking my bag so forcefully that it swung away from us, managing to stop it with one of his hands before it had the chance to clock me in the face.

"You suck," he stated plainly and quite gleefully, as if complimenting my hair. "I mean I was watching you, and you really suck." I turned away from him and began to lazily follow the rest of the initiates out of the training room.

"You know we aren't in Candor anymore; you can shut up every now and again," I responded a few seconds later, slightly exasperated but mostly just tired and very ready to sit down.

"You should have seen me today – I was freaking _insane_. I kicked this guy's ass so hard, he won't be able to sit for a week," he prattled, punching the air as if doing so was some form of proof.

"I bet you did, Peter," I said, my tone bored, as I examined the pale concrete of the tunnel we strode through.

"I'm really your biggest competition here…though you're hardly mine." He nudged my forearm, then pretended to punch me in the gut numerous times.

"Mhm." I pushed his fists away, rolling my eyes at his antics. My weariness was quickly interrupted by an echoing shriek of surprise and the collective murmur of the initiates. I shoved past Peter, elbowing my way through the crowd, to find Christina dangling over the Chasm and Eric staring down at her smugly.

"You've got three options," he declared. "Hang there and I'll forget your cowardice, fall and _die_ , or give up." A whine of fear left her mouth. "But if you give up, you're out," he finished. She grunted in response, then let out a series of small helpless sounds that made my heart ache. I briefly wondered what she had done to make Eric think she deserved this, knowing that if I ever found out, I would actively avoid doing the same.

"Come on Chris," Tris encouraged lightly, earning a cold stare from Eric but no further reprimand. Taking this as a good sign, I stepped forward, my shoulder grazing that of Tris, and added confidently:

"Yeah, come on – you can do it." Eric swiftly tore his menacing gaze from Tris to slap it on me, his jaw tightening with further agitation. I held his eyes for a moment – my expression blank despite the fact that fear scratched at my insides – before turning my attention to Tris, to whom I offered a small, empathetic smile.

Christina continued to whimper, grasping my attention, and utter sympathy, once more. She was a gut-wrenching sight to behold: her hands and arms shook violently and her face was distorted with a look of complete terror and sickening pain. Yet Eric watched her with complete indifference, as if she was wet paint in the midst of drying. He didn't even flinch when her scream of panic pierced the air; if anything, the sound irritated him. He had noticed that one of her hands had slipped, hadn't he? And he must have known the other was mere moments away from doing the same, right? Well I had, and I knew, and the difference was: I cared.

I went into instant autopilot, scrambling towards her with fire in my veins and my heart in my throat. My intense urge to help her suffocated the rational part of me, which insisted that I would be the one hanging over the Chasm all too soon. Eric was quick to notice me; there was slight confusion in his eyes at first, but after a moment, his face was alive with what can only be described as cruel amusement. I was about half way to him when I was jerked back by a large, calloused hand. I didn't have to glance back to know it was Peter, nor did I have to pull very hard to free myself from him.

"Can I try?" I said when I reached him. I attempted to act nonchalant, like I loved the thought of hanging over a – seemingly endless – pit and the prospect of impending death. Though I was sure my light, breathy voice told a completely different story. "She's had a long enough turn."

Before he could give an answer, I got on my hands and knees at the edge of the bridge, and stared down at a very pale, very sweaty Christina. Only four of her fingers were hooked onto the ledge, holding the weight of her entire body. Upon going reach for her arm, those four fingers suddenly slid from their place on the damp rail.

She was falling.

Her shrill, bloodcurdling scream was cut short by my swift clutch of her bony wrist. For a second, time stopped, and only her wide eyes and tearstained cheeks existed.

She had almost died.

I had almost witnessed her die.

My heartbeat was loud in my ears and seemed to match the pulse of her wrist, which thrummed rapidly against my palm. Using the weight of my own body, I pulled her towards me until we were both sprawled on the cold metal. Closing my eyes, I attempted to shut myself off from the world; the sound of rushing water mixing with that of my own rushing blood. When I finally managed to open them, Christina was gone, and an upside down Eric greeted me from above with a wide, satisfied smile.

"Your turn."

I rose to my feet before he had the chance to help me up, fearing that if he got a hold of me he would throw me over the edge without warning. If I was going to dangle over nothingness, I was going to do so on my own terms. If I was going to die, I'd do so with some dignity.

I wiped my sweaty, shaky hands on my leggings, transformed my loose bun into a tight ponytail and took one deep breath, before walking to the edge of the bridge. The sweat on the back of my neck froze at the sight of the dark emptiness that existed below me, but I knew that I'd already made my disturbingly uncomfortable bed.

Now I had to lie in it.

Preferring death to being factionless, I spun around on the tips of my toes to face Eric; my back straight, head high and face emotionless. Crouching down, I clenched the rail with both hands, continuing to stare at him as I did so. He wore his typical stoic expression, but his dark eyes were on the move, as if to examine me. As if I was some odd, volatile creature, and he didn't quite know what I would do next. To be honest, _I_ didn't know what I'd do next. If I even had a 'next' after my incredibly stupid, albeit somewhat unintentional, attempt at bravery. Up until this point, I had done so well at blending in; I was decent enough at combat and shooting, but not good enough to draw any unnecessary attention, and though I was liked, I wasn't exactly the belle of the ball. This act of complete senselessness, however, was sure to paint a giant target on my back, one at which both Eric and the other initiates would likely take their aim.

I pinched my eyes closed, pushing any thoughts of future troubles away, and focused on my current – extremely dire – situation. The dank air that touched my hot skin was somehow comforting, but it did little to stop my stomach from aching with nerves, nor did it persuade me to cease chewing at my bottom lip.

I sipped in one last breath before taking the plunge.

My last – superbly eloquent – thought before dropping my legs beneath me and over the ravine, was simply:

 _To hell with it._

I could hear the echoing strain of the metal and the sound of my shoulders snapping into place – my arms unaccustomed to supporting so much weight. Yet, after the initial sound of my fall, I vowed to stay completely silent, to give the people above me no ammunition for future torture. Though I shook with dread and ached to yell and scream and cry, I sucked hard at my cheeks to ensure that the only sound accompanying the hiss of the water below, was that of my breathing.

The fear that tickled my spine forbade me from opening my eyes, but my lack of sight didn't stop my reeling mind or the sensations that attacked my body. I began to catalogue every second and analyze every feeling, sound and smell; my mind shifting in a panic from one thought to another. I took in the way in which the thin railing cut into the flesh of my fingers; observed that every two seconds, water from above would dribble onto my nose and cheeks; and that my breath, though uneven, was warm as it met the skin of my upper arm. Though the musty smell of the Chasm seemed to sit upon me, the ringing in my ears, brought on by both my own silence and the consistent hum of the ravine, proved to be much more troublesome.

After a short eternity, I managed to pry my eyes open, flicking them upwards and locking them with Eric's. Eric, who stood dangerously close to the ledge, continued to inspect me carefully, fostering deep discomfort within me. Nonetheless, the discomfort of his stare was nothing compared to the feeling of swinging over the Chasm. Not to mention that studying him was far more appealing than studying the darkness beneath my feet. So I held his gaze as tightly as I held the rail, waiting anxiously for him to call –

"Time," he announced firmly. I could feel the devastating weight of fear fall from my shoulders, and though my body was still heavy, I felt lighter. The feeling of two pairs of hands on my arms almost summoned a smile onto my face, as did being dragged upwards and away from what felt like the end. My muscles, on the other hand, were not as happy as I, for I could only manage a relieved frown, even as I was brought into a comforting hug.

I could hear Christina whisper several thank yous into my ear as she clung tightly to me. I couldn't help but notice that she hadn't stopped shaking, and I didn't doubt that she could feel me tremble beneath her as well. Some part of myself knew that even after we'd leave the Chasm, it wouldn't ever really leave us.

As initiates passed – a now separated – Christina and I, they clapped my back and shook my shoulder to congratulate my pseudo fearlessness and, I guess, my escape from death's grip. It wasn't long until Peter came bounding toward me, chattering on about my continual stupidity and his superior ability to keep himself safe by putting himself first. Allowing his words to enter one ear and glide out the other, I turned to my right to take in the look of indifference Eric was undoubtedly sporting…only he wasn't there.

* * *

"So, you and Peter?"

Unsurprised by her question, I continued to study the tattoo designs that covered the towering wall, dragging my fingers over the few at eye level.

"Long-time family friends," I answered distractedly, admiring the long, maze-like tattoo under my fingertips.

"So you guys have never…?" I walked over to Christina, who sat back in a sleek chair as a young, muscular man tattooed her wrist. Her tan, nearly golden, skin looked almost pale in comparison with his, and her small frame seemed even smaller with his large one in such close quarters.

"No, we've never slept together," I finished for her, glancing over at Tris who sat in the neighbouring chair, but only to watch her friend get another tattoo. She gave me an amused smile, fully aware of Christina's slightly nosy nature.

"But you guys have kissed?" I chuckled at that, squeezing next to Tris who had patted the seat she sat on, inviting me to share it with her.

"No, we haven't kissed," I insisted lightheartedly. "Actually, if I didn't know him so well, I don't think I'd even continue to talk to him. He's gotten really asshole-ish since we've been at Dauntless. I mean I could deal with him before, but now…I don't know he's really different." I picked at my nail, feeling stupid confiding in girls I'd barely talked to before, as if I'd said too much or my words made little sense. My concerns were quelled, however, when they both nodded supportively, even more so when Tris put a comforting hand on my shoulder. I smiled at the action, revelling in speaking to people who didn't feel the need to constantly tear me down in order to build themselves up.

"Maybe the stress of all this is getting to him," Tris suggested thoughtfully, earning an eye roll of disbelief from Christina. Though I wanted to buy into her theory, I was with Christina on this one. I knew Peter was scared to some extent – we all were – but it felt more as if Dauntless was allowing him to show his truest colours, not forcing him to hide behind some fabricated tough exterior. I also knew Tris was just saying that for my sake, it was no secret that her and Peter didn't exactly get along.

"Maybe," I said, doubtfully.

"Done!" Christina happily chirped a few moments after the man drew away from her arm, breaking the silence that had fallen over us. Tris and I sprung from our seat to examine his work, excited to be focusing on something lighter. Written beautifully in small, black cursive across the inside of her wrist was:

 _Hold on_

A pleased grin spread across my face, faltering in surprise when she suddenly grabbed my hand, shifting my focus from her arm to her eyes.

"It's the wrist you caught," she stated, her tone soft and laced with gratitude. "I'll always remember what you did today. I owe you one." I tightened my hold on her hand in response, and she nodded at me, her lips pressed together in the smallest of smiles. In but a moment, she was letting out a quick breath, shaking her head as if shaking away the solemnity that had settled between us.

"Tris, let's go find you a tattoo," she proposed, the look on her face still unable to match the cheery voice she adopted.

"I don't know…" Tris countered unsurely, attempting to stay put as Christina began dragging her toward the designs. I mindlessly watched them banter for a minute or two before Tris finally caved into Christina's pleas, allowing her to pull her away.

"You coming?" Christina called, already a few feet ahead.

"Yeah, just give me second." I collapsed onto the chair she had occupied a minute ago, taking a moment to compose myself. The day had been equally awful and…pleasant; I had gone from hanging over the Chasm, to hanging with two lovely girls. Yet both situations had induced my nerves to flutter – terribly or inconsequentially – and as one had instantly followed the other, I had been given no chance to recuperate.

Christina's laugh drew my attention away from my thoughts and instead to her and Tris. They seemed to be amused by one of the designs, Christina's giggling only ceasing when a gruff, heavily pierced man walked by, continuing as soon as he disappeared. I knew, despite feeling emotionally and physically drained from the day's events, I was undoubtedly glad to have done what I did. Those ladies were something special and I was glad to have befriended them, if only for a night.

"Someone sounds like quite the hero." I unconsciously jolted, a blush warming my cheeks as I quickly realized that Christina's tattoo artist had been near, the entire time.

"Not really," I disagreed softly, twisting my seated body toward him as he rolled his stool closer.

"Greyson." He held his hand out for me to shake, smiling at me the way every girl wants to be smiled at. Though I wasn't sure whether or not he reserved that look for certain people or he was just blessed with a face that moved so beautifully, I took his hand, noting that it was calloused and warm.

"Jess."

"Jess," he repeated, as if testing out the name. "You in need of a tattoo as well?" I met his dark eyes, which seemed to explore mine with eager intensity, inspiring butterflies to collect in my stomach.

"Do you do piercings?"

He simply graced me with another one of his gorgeous smiles.

* * *

Though my knuckles were red from punching, I felt as if I'd hardly improved my combat skills. Lying on the cold concrete, I pushed breaths in and out of my burning lungs, wondering how I'd ever win the following day. Especially with my body being in such terrible condition. My morning bravery had finally caught up with me; my limbs resembled boiled noodles, my brain screamed incessantly and the painful heat of my hands matched that of my newly pierced ear cartilage. So naturally, instead of sleeping away the pain, I chose to worsen it with more practice…in the middle of the night.

I had been quiet leaving the dormitory, although I suspected everyone was fast asleep. The last thing I needed was someone following me, or worse, notifying Eric or Four. I wasn't exactly sure whether or not they permitted training after hours, but I wasn't taking any chances. While I was downright dreadful with directions, I had somehow managed to memorize the five minute route to the training room. With little else to occupy my thoughts, the stupid, girlish part of me had dreamed of running into Greyson in one of the deserted hallways. I hadn't – of course – but I had mentally replayed our conversation a few times, probably overanalyzing it.

The silence of the winding halls had seemed like the perfect place to remember his words, as I had been too hyper to do so beforehand. We hadn't talked about much, mostly my Chasm incident, though we touched on both of our backgrounds. He was a Dauntless-born, an initiate only a year before me. His parents had raised him to be fearless and did little to hide the fact that they hoped he would become a future Dauntless leader. Though he ranked first, he had chosen instead to become a tattoo artist, inadvertently crushing their dreams. He hadn't exactly revealed why he'd turned down the chance, but I assumed that his artistic nature had pushed him in another direction.

He had gone on to laugh at my Candor stories – my constant lying as a child, the hard time my mother had with me, my numerous mishaps at school. His low laugh had been fresh in my mind, and thinking back to it had duplicated the giddy feeling it had stirred in the moment. When I'd arrived at the training room, I had been so deep in my own silly thoughts that I had bumped into one of the punching bags, terrified for a moment that it had been a person. Between weak punches I had managed to realize how genuinely idiotic I was being, allowing the first boy to smile at me to cloud my mind. I easily guessed that my severe lack of any true romantic experience was to blame.

Finally pulling myself off the floor, I resumed my disordered training, convinced I would be beaten to a pulp in the morning. An embarrassing three punches in, the skin of my right hand split and began to bleed pitifully, provoking me to roll my eyes at my own weakness. Sucking on it in a feeble attempt to numb the pain, I began to kick at the bag, deciding that doing so would be a far better use of my time. My kicks were high and relatively powerful, but in the few fights I'd participated in, I'd only had the chance to use my hands before being forced to the floor by my opponent and helpless against their attacks. On a sudden whim, I executed a quick spin, using the momentum to kick the vinyl even harder, proud when the bag flew back.

"What was that?"

My face warmed with alarm, cooling at the sight of a surprised Tris.

"Nothing." I stood frozen, moved only by the retreating punching bag that nudged me a bit sideways.

"Nothing?" Her eyebrows reached for her hairline in disbelief. "I've seen you fight Jess, and you've never done that before."

In other words, I – as Peter so beautifully put it – sucked. She'd only ever seen me throw a few punches, then get pummeled until I couldn't move.

I considered fabricating a convincing lie – telling her I'd been practicing or that I'd been holding back during previous fights to avoid being targeted for excelling. Her sleepy face, alight with innocent curiosity, however, persuaded me to confide in my newfound friend.

"I used to fight my brother a bit." I shrugged, kicking at the bag half-heartedly, taking her silence as encouragement to continue. "It's stupid but I used to practice. I used to," I paused, laughing with little humour. "I used to make up little moves in my head, little combinations I could use to surprise him with next time we fought." I looked up at her. "The spin and kick was one of them." I smiled, my embarrassment somehow not managing to stop more words from leaving my mouth. "Then I get here and I can't even stand my ground for more than two minutes. I mean I know we were just kids with no bloody idea how to really fight, but…I just thought I'd be a little better at all this, you know?"

When I finished, I couldn't help but notice that Tris looked a little uncomfortable, unsure of what to say. Maybe that was why she transferred from Abnegation, not because she lacked compassion but the inherent ability to express it.

"You should use it." A confused expression must have wiggled its way onto my face because she quickly explained herself. "Your kick – it's powerful. It'll give you an advantage. So will practicing those combinations. Here." She grabbed my limp hands, balled them into fists and helped me attack the bag strategically, explaining when to go in for a punch. I knew she wasn't much better than I was, but her help was welcome and her tactics weren't half bad. I idly wondered if that was thanks to Four.

Though I was unsure how much time had passed, my exhausted body seemed to tell me that it was almost morning. After Tris had helped me improve my kicks, various hits and punches, we had moved onto sparring against one another to apply her tricks and tips. Somehow, after about ten minutes, I had managed to trap her in a tight headlock. As she struggled to free herself, my confidence skyrocketed, convinced this would lead to my victory.

Finally I'd win.

My confidence was premature, for she squirmed enough to liberate herself from my hold, elbowing my forehead in the process. The impact knocked me back, but she hadn't hit hard enough for it to hurt for more than a second.

Yet, I felt as if I couldn't breathe.

This was all too familiar.

I clutched my head at the memory – the one I'd so long ago repressed; feeling nauseous as I watched it replay in my mind's eye.

"Are you okay?" Tris's hands were on mine, gently forcing them away from my closed eyes.

"Yeah, sorry, I think I just have a headache…I'm really tired." My voice was faint but kind, my smile small but seemingly genuine.

Though I always knew I didn't belong in Candor, in that very moment I was entirely positive I'd made the right choice leaving my home.

See, for me, lying came too easily.


End file.
